Ghost Stories, a sherlock fanfic

A/N: This is my RIDICULOUSLY LONG OVERDUE gift for the exchangelock AU exchange. This story completely got away from me, in more ways than one, as the rambling beginning probably makes clear. I decided to do a Potterlock for my giftee, Nayomi. Even though it took me a long time to get this piece together, I still must acknowledge that it could be better in many ways. Nayomi, wherever you are and if you happen to find this, I hope you like it.

I understand that there's a bit of debate over which Houses the Sherlock characters would be sorted into, so I went with my personal headcanons. This story focuses only on Sherlock and John; no other Sherlock or Harry Potter characters appear (though there is the faintest, faintest hint of Sirius/Remus, my HP OTP). I've heard that Sherlock and John would have been in Hogwarts at around the same time as the Trio, if the two universes overlapped, but for simplicity's sake, I put them in the vague 1980's: post-MWPP/War-with-Voldemort I, pre-Trio/War-with-Voldemort II.

I had this idea that the story about the Shrieking Shack in PoA was that it was inhabited by ghosts, but now, I'm wondering if this is false. Huge apologies if it is.

I also apologize for any inaccuracies regarding record players, British English, and Harry Potter canon, as well as other mistakes I may have missed in my editing process.

I have a vague idea for a companion piece but I make absolutely no promises that I'll actually write it.

John never believed in ghosts when he was younger, but now he believes in just about everything. He doesn't see how anyone can be sceptical in a world where magic exists, where ordinary boys dreaming of escape are whisked away on magic trains to magic schools, where you can say a few words and wave around a piece of wood and objects start to fly, or change into other objects, and the ordinary bits of his first eleven years are the subject of naive fascination, a school topic for those classmates who grew up with dishes that washed themselves and parents who could disappear and reappear at will.

He's known about this wizard thing for five years now and it's still just a tiny bit amazing.

It was the ghosts who bothered him—fascinated him—the most, at first. He jumped when he first saw them glide through the walls of the Great Hall. And that night, four-poster curtains drawn closed around his new bed, the uneven breathing of three other boys, all asleep, surrounding him, a noise he thought he heard more than a noise he heard, it was the ghosts he thought about. Was there a life after death after all? For everyone? Or just for wizards and witches? Or just for those people who needed it, or earned it? Or was it actually, even for those jolly, smiling, friendly ghosts, a punishment?

John's not exactly known as a deep thinker, though he's no idiot: he's the best at Defence Against the Dark Arts, top of his class at Transfiguration too, and not too bad Potions, though he's not a star. He's going to be a Healer after he finishes school. It's a solid plan, and he feels good about it, confident. And if something else sometimes haunts him, some other thought, not quite there on the tip of his tongue, it's easy to push away. He jokes with himself. You just want to be a Quidditch star still, he tells himself, like you did when you were thirteen. You want something glamorous and bright, even if it's transient.

His first Quidditch game, the autumn of his third year, was absolutely miserable. Though not from the start.

Tense and nervous the night before, unable to sleep yet again, still he'd been confident and clear-headed over breakfast. Greg Lestrade had taken over as Captain that year, and he wasn't much for pep talks, or optimism, but John didn't care a bit. He didn't care when it started raining, large fat drops out of an ominous grey sky, as soon as they stepped out on the field. He didn't care that the Ravenclaw Beaters were both seventh years, each a head taller and a third as wide, it seemed, than he was, angry and grumbling at the weather. He thought it was all quite exciting. He thought it was pretty much perfect.

Within ten minutes, the intermittent rain was a downpour, and by the end of the first hour, there was thunder in the distance and lightning piercing through the clouds. Yet the game went on and on. Completely dreadful, the others would grumble later. Interminable. Awful.

John loved it. He loved it even when they were losing—even though, in fact, they were losing the whole way through, and only the ridiculous rules of this wizard game saved them, the mere chance that their Seeker caught the snitch before her counterpart did. So, no thanks to him. But he hit the ground hard with a jolt through his knees, soaked through to the skin, out of breath, exhausted, exhilarated, and he wanted that feeling always, and it had seemed possible. Anything had seemed possible.

For a while, he thought he'd play Quidditch professionally, a dream that Greg, the future Auror, had quietly discouraged. Not because John was a bad player, of course, he wasn't, but just because it wasn't a practical career move, at the end of the day. Quidditch was more of a hobby really. For fun. Obstinate with early adolescence, John had ignored him.

The dream persisted for a year, a year and a half, shining somewhere in the vague distance ahead of him, bright and true. In the Muggle world, it might have died within months, when he broke his leg, and his fear as he fell was that he'd be off it a year, the promise of an endless recovery worse than the pain. But he was healed up within the hour. All fine. So the dream lasted a few more months before it died on its own, before it faded away as old dreams do.

He still plays, of course. He's much better now than he was. The other Gryffindors cheer for him when he hits the Bludger just right, but he's not sure if he plays for them, for himself and the thrill he feels, less often now but sometimes, or for some other reason again. Habit, maybe. Something to do.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock tells him. "You love that silly game. And you're the best player on the team."

This isn't true, but Sherlock says it so flippantly, as if it were obvious, that John almost believes him anyway.

"You're also the only reason I come to these things," Sherlock adds, which is about as sappy as he gets. John appreciates these moments while he has them.

"The crowd wouldn't be complete without you," he answers.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, clearly embarrassed, and John lets the conversation drop.

They met, in a way, because of Quidditch. And in a way because of Potions. And in a way just by chance.

John first noticed Sherlock during their Potions class, fourth year, when the Gryffindors were paired up with the Ravenclaws. He'd been glancing around for a partner among the members of his own House, and didn't see the curly-haired boy who slid in next to him until suddenly, they were in the middle of introductions. "Uneven numbers," the boy explained, as if this really said it all. Then he added, "I hope you're good. I'm the best in the class."

John's eyes widened—that was bold, wasn't it?—better than being shy, though, that got tiring too quickly—but in only a moment everything had simply... clicked. Just so. "I'm good," he promised. It must have been the confidence in his voice that made his new partner smile. John's eyes were locked on his and so he saw the first twitches of a grin at the corners of the boy's mouth, even before it spread to brighten his whole face. A lovely smile.

"Sherlock," the boy said.

"John," he answered.

It wasn't simply John's confidence that pulled Sherlock in, though that was part of it, of course. He liked the colour of John's hair, too, that he was broad-shouldered but not very tall, the shape of his face, the muscles in his arms. He'd noticed him for the first time the year before, during a Gryffindor-Ravenclaw Quidditch match, an absolutely miserable affair played straight through the middle of a rain storm, and John the one bit of gold flitting through it all. Sherlock had watched him through a pair of charmed binoculars he'd stolen from his grandfather's house the summer before. He'd come with a few people, but their talking bored him. The golden boy didn't bore him.

He came to more Gryffindor than Ravenclaw games that season, and ignored the spare bits and pieces of teasing from his few almost-friends, who all noticed. But what was there to notice? The new Beater was just... fascinating, that was all.

But he didn't tell John any of this until later.

Sometimes they get into the mood to tell each other secrets, but not often. This isn't a question of trust. John trusts Sherlock like an extension of himself, and he has in an implicit, unthinking way since, if he had to pinpoint the moment, they met. He doesn't question it. But he isn't one to talk about himself too much (he's boring, anyway), and there's so much more of interest in the now and the future than in the past.

He will ask Sherlock for stories, though, of his childhood in a big old house with magic in its walls—how John pictures it—as real and as powerful as the magic its inhabitants carry around in them, somewhere inside of them.

(He's wondered this too: where magic comes from, because it can't be simply passed down, through genetics, through blood. His family is as normal and dull, as completely unmagical, as they come. Yet it's in him.)

(Of course it's IN YOU, Sherlock says, and squeezes his hand. They're looking up at the stars and Sherlock is making excuses and no stories, in the end, are told.)

Sherlock takes his world of magic for granted, and has such little patience for everything Muggle, which he associates with slowness and static, that he occasionally displays a hilarious ignorance of the most mundane details of that life John used to live. Still photographs, dish washing machines, aeroplanes: Muggle technology, no matter how old or new, seems useless to him and thus inexplicable.

John jokes that he should take him on a tour sometime, of the best bits and pieces of the Muggle world, but Sherlock just makes a face. "What good would that do?" he asks.

"Might be fun," John answers, shrugging, smile shifting from amused to curious and thoughtful. He hadn't been serious before. Now he is.

"What are you suggesting? Some sort of... magic-less road trip?" He says 'road trip' like it is a strange foreign phrase, awkward on his tongue.

"Something like that. Maybe." He flips Sherlock's hand over and traces the blue line of vein visible under the delicate skin of his wrist. If John were to press in just the right place, he'd feel the pulse pulse echo of Sherlock's heartbeat. He's quite familiar with Sherlock's heartbeat, by now. "It was just a thought," he adds, idly.

"Not a terrible thought," Sherlock says, but the words come out on a gentle flutter of breath, not what John was expecting at all. He has the strange sensation that they are suddenly talking about something else entirely; he feels he has discovered something, quite by accident, a genius stroke of luck.

"It's nothing," Sherlock told him, when John first reported the story of the Shack. He'd heard it before, so he wasn't surprised, and he didn't believe it, so he wasn't interested. They'd been friends for three months, and everything about Sherlock so fascinated John, he'd been hoping to offer a bit of the same in return. He hadn't realized yet that he really didn't need to try that hard.

The topic comes up again, two years later, somewhat by chance, when John tells Sherlock a story about a Gryffindor third year who backed out of a dare to visit the Shack at midnight. It was a cruel dare anyway. The kid is terrified of ghosts.

"There is no ghost in the Shack," Sherlock answers, as if the idea were preposterous, as if he had been pondering its preposterous nature for quite some time. John doesn't see how it could be. Didn't they see a ghost just yesterday, a beautiful transparent woman gliding down the hall, past the shadowy alcove where they were hidden? They'd been pressed up against each other, John's hand in Sherlock's curls, huffing breath against the warm skin of Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock's hands curled too tight in the extra fabric of John's robes, just at his waist. Everything so tense and so close and then a not-quite-sound behind them, subtle, timid, breaking that moment that neither one yet understood—they'd caught each other's eye and broken into a fit of giggles. As the laughter trailed off, it sounded nervous.

So of course there is such a thing as ghosts.

Sherlock grew up, even, in a house that was haunted, and he's told John these stories multiple times, sighing a little as if he minded telling the same tales again and again. But John loves to picture it. His own childhood was too normal (Sherlock insists his was normal too, but), and he's grown so fond so quickly of the image of young Sherlock, up in the middle of the night and padding down creaky wooden steps, stealing food from the kitchen and munching on it quietly as he listens to the sounds of the long-dead sweeping down the halls above him.

"I'm not saying ghosts don't exist," Sherlock interrupts, and John shakes his head free of those distracting thoughts. "And don't ask how I know you were thinking that, it was obvious in your expression. I'm saying that the ghost explanation in this case makes no sense."

"Yeah, but it does though, doesn't it?" John counters, lying down on his back and looking up at Sherlock, his features uncertain in the growing twilight. John can feel the uneven bumps and stones of the ground beneath the blanket they've laid out. It isn't uncomfortable, really. But he shifts a little, anyway, and watches Sherlock watching him. "People always hear a... a banging and a commotion. That has to be caused by something. Why can't it be caused by a ghost?"

"Why should we believe it's caused by a ghost?" Sherlock counters. "Just because that's what we've been told? THINK, John!"

His tone is more excited than accusing, and John doesn't take it personally. He does try to think, though. As usual, Sherlock sees more than he does, and his brain puts all of the pieces together so cleanly, so smoothly, John's job is more to watch, to be an audience, than anything. At least for now.

"The ghost story's only been around for ten years or so, not even—"

"Well, it needs to start somewhere, doesn't it? I mean, ghosts need to start somewhere."

Sherlock gives him a look, annoyed at an interruption that came in the wrong place, at the wrong time. John looks up at him in return, not quite smiling. This is supposed to be serious.

"I mean, they weren't always ghosts, they were alive once—"

"I know what you mean."

"Right."

Sherlock waits a long moment, as if prepared for John to interrupt him again the minute he opens his mouth. But John only takes one of Sherlock's hands in his own and is silent.

"I'm saying that the timing doesn't make sense," he continues at last. "And the ghost story is too convenient."

"But what about all the noises—"

"Exactly!" His face lights up again, like Christmas, and John has to hide his smile behind his hand. "The noises, John. When was the last time anyone heard any noises? Have you ever heard them?"

He thinks a moment, then admits, slowly, "No. Wait—are you saying everything was made up? Why? Who would do that?"

"I'm saying the ghost was made up," Sherlock answers. His eyes are glowing. He's not upset with John for being slow on the uptake; John's just fast enough for Sherlock's taste, allowing Sherlock to explain once but not forcing him to explain twice, which would, of course, be dull. "I've been looking into the sounds, and there are too many eyewitnesses—"

"Ear-witnesses," John mumbles, still biting back a smile.

"Too many people from Hogsmeade who all heard the same thing, around the same time, and anyway, it makes no sense to fake the thing to be covered up on top of the cover itself. No. No, that isn't right. The sounds were real and something really caused them. But not a ghost, and so the question is what, and why aren't we allowed to know about it?"

Sherlock isn't one for conspiracy theories, and that's not what this is. This is facts that aren't adding up. This is something unusual. A little off, a little not quite right.

"But," John interrupts (Sherlock isn't saying anything, but his eyes are lit up with that fascinating and excited glow that says his mind is racing. Sherlock is at his most radiant when his mind is racing.). "But how do we know it's not a ghost, again?"

"No deaths at the right time," Sherlock answers, quickly, bored, waving the question away—but not meanly. "No reason for a ghost to be haunting the Shack."

"Okay." There's a rock starting to tickle between John's shoulder blades, so he shifts a little, finding a comfortable spot. "So we know there's no ghost. We know strange sounds were coming from the Shack at one point. And we know they aren't now." When he says it like that, it sounds like nothing. It sounds like they know nothing, and there is nothing to know. "It kinda seems like whatever was making the noises has left."

Clearly, Sherlock's expression says, he has missed the point.

"That doesn't mean we can't figure out what it was."

To be safe, Sherlock thinks they should plan to spend the night. It doesn't sound like 'being safe' so much as it sounds like 'going on an adventure,' but John's okay with that too. These are the slow weeks of early spring: not quite Quidditch finals, not quite exams, not much to do—but even the season is an excuse because John would, he already knows, follow Sherlock anywhere and at any time, for any reason.

He packs a bag discreetly, while his roommates are out, and doesn't tell anyone where he's going.

They arrive at Hogsmeade just at the dinner hour, old enough and mature enough now to blend into the Saturday night crowd. They barely look like students anymore. John takes a silly sort of pride in this. He'll be legal this summer, after all, and adulthood, privilege, opportunity, seems all of a sudden within his reach.

They'd used the rush down to dinner as their opportunity to escape, and John's stomach is growling in a quite unseemly way. He's not sure if Sherlock heard it (possible), or if his is just twisting up in this same annoying way (somehow less likely), but Sherlock leads them to the Three Broomsticks before he even mentions the Shack. But John can see it looming over them, dark and eerie and silent.

Silent, he reminds himself. Silent. If Sherlock's right, there's nothing there at all, nothing but old clues and dust. Still, something, the old stories perhaps, or just the look of the place, rotting, sagging, glaring down at them darkly in the still-light, long, good-weather days, something is making the hairs prick up on the back of John's neck.

You're paranoid, Sherlock would tell him. They find a table in the back and order Butterbeers and sandwiches and Sherlock is quiet, though he has one of John's feet trapped between his feet under the table. John assumes he's thinking and doesn't force conversation. He thinks instead about how absolutely mad they are to be considering spending a night in the Shrieking Shack. Stories or no stories, ghosts or no ghosts, it's a decrepit old place and anyway—someone did start those rumours to warn people away. Probably for good reason too.

"Maybe it's on the verge of collapse," he suggests, taking the tomatoes Sherlock has removed from his sandwich and adding them to his own. "Maybe it's dangerous, and the stories are to keep silly kids away from it."

"Maybe," Sherlock answers. "Not impossible. But I've seen magic hold up buildings much more badly off than the Shack. Seems too easy."

"Right. Yeah."

Sherlock does hate when things are easy. If that's the solution, he'll be so disappointed. Might even be the last thing he feels before the roof falls down on their heads, in a worst case scenario sort of way.

They leave the Three Broomsticks at twilight and start their slow walk up to the Shack. Sherlock says they shouldn't draw attention to themselves by hurrying, or taking the obvious route: two teenage wizards with conspicuous bags, it just wouldn't do. But John thinks he might be taking his time because he's a bit nervous, too. There are plenty of people out, enjoying the first tentatively warm evenings of the year, but they pay no attention. Everything according to plan so far. All well and good.

To be safe, they walk around to the back door of the Shack, which John expects will be locked but which is barely even closed; Sherlock pushes it open with two fingers. It creaks loudly. "Almost a cliché, isn't it?" Sherlock mumbles, and steps inside. And yes, John thinks, perfectly cliché, plenty of shadows and a thick layer of dust over everything, the hint of something lurking in the background. He takes out his wand and holds it tight, down by his leg but at the ready.

Sherlock takes three steps in, enough for John to follow and to close the door behind them, potentially a very stupid move, then stops. He stands very still. He listens. Then he declares, "Nothing," loudly and with some confidence, sets down his bag, and begins to look around. He pulls out a magnifying glass, which John has seen before and which he finds equal parts pretentious and endearing, and starts to gather his clues, or whatever it is that Sherlock does.

There's not much to see downstairs: not a stick of furniture, only two rooms—it is a shack, after all—so John doesn't follow. Wouldn't want to stir up the dust any more than Sherlock already is. No, no. For reasons he cannot quite pin down, boredom and curiosity among them, but perhaps a bit of fear, too, and the disconcerting need to face that fear head on, wand up, attack if necessary—for his own reasons, he climbs up the stairs.

Sherlock finds him a few minutes later. There wasn't much to explore downstairs, after all. There's only one room up here, and before he's quite in the doorway of it, he's saying, "No one's used the downstairs in ages. It's just dust. Is there anything—"

John is sitting on the floor just to the side of the doorway, his legs up against his chest and his arms crossed on top of his knees. He's set his bag down next to him, his wand on top of it, unneeded. It wasn't surprise that brought him to this position, or not only surprise, but a strange and ill-defined need to be very still as he took it all in. This room is not deserted. There's a big dusty four-poster just off to John's left, neatly made up and covered with a musty green blanket, a bedside table next to it and a dresser off to the side. Across the room is a large piano—also a Muggle record player, and a stack of old records. The dust layer isn't as thick up here, even John can see that, and none of this would be odd in the slightest if the downstairs hadn't been so completely and so eerily deserted.

"Somebody was using this room," Sherlock says, and John thinks that this is the stupidest and most obvious thing he's ever heard his friend say.

"Yeah, clearly," he huffs.

Sherlock pulls him to his feet and together they explore the room: opening drawers, playing the piano (horribly out of tune, screechy and painful to hear), sifting through the piles of records. They're all Muggle artists, which isn't surprising, given the format, but for a moment John has the strange thought that perhaps this house wasn't used by wizards at all. It's an incredibly silly notion. He's just glad he didn't accidentally say it out loud, for Sherlock to hear.

"Muggle born, probably," he says instead, flipping over a Jimi Hendrix record as if it were the most fascinating thing. "Given the... uh, technology." He makes a face at his own phrase but Sherlock doesn't notice. Sherlock isn't interested in the record player at all, but is apparently very fascinated by the floor: he's crouching down near the corner with his magnifying glass out again, examining something minute and apparently, as far as John can tell, quite fascinating.

"There are scratches everywhere," he says, which is rather the last thing John expected to hear. It makes him stop in his steps. Sherlock can make anything sound like a revelation.

"Mostly on the floors and walls," he continues, standing up, turning to John with that expression on his face that John knows too well, the screen for a million rushing, running thoughts. "Some on the furniture but—whatever was destroying this room did its worst damage before the furniture was moved in."

"Destroying?" John looks down at the bright psychedelics of Are You Experienced?, now muted somewhat with age and dust, and frowns. "Isn't that a little strong? It looks like a secret hideout for a bunch of a teenagers, that's all."

"That's part right," Sherlock corrects, holding up one finger in almost professor-y way. Then he uses that finger to point behind him. He's brushed off the dust from a portion of floor and wall and John won't lie, his first thought when he sees the gashes Sherlock has uncovered is: animal.

Beast.

"Give me your theory," Sherlock says abruptly, sitting down at the piano bench and fixing John with an intent but patient stare. It's flattering to be put in the spotlight by Hogwarts-famous genius Sherlock Holmes, but a bit intimidating too. John's half sure that if Sherlock did this to anyone else, he'd be setting him up for a fall. But with John, the request, dressed up as a command though it is, is genuine.

"Ah, well," he answers, and clears his throat, and thinks a long moment. "I guess this place was used by a bunch of kids as a... a place to get away, like the hidden room behind the tapestry on the fourth floor... but obviously much better." He glances around, envying the students who set up this spot, excessive dust and old, mysterious claw marks or no. "And then I guess they finished school or got caught—no, because if they were caught, the stuff would be gone, or there'd be some indication they were trying to hide or get rid of it." His voice trails off into a hum as he turns to survey the room again, starting from the doorway, a wide semi-circle that skips easily over Sherlock, the still-expectant, fascinated look on his face. "And that's it, I suppose. Must have been a while ago, because it looks pretty deserted."

Sherlock doesn't answer for a long moment, as if he were waiting for John to think of something more. He's pulled his lips in, as if he were chewing on them, and he looks suspicious. John watches him from the corner of his eye.

"Yes," he says finally. Slowly. "But what about the scratches? The noises? The ghost story?"

"Scratches could be anything," John answers, with a false shrug. "And the ghost story was fake, right? Maybe even the sounds were fake?"

"No, they were real. There are too many accounts, remember?" He's standing now, growing excitement in his voice, in the movement of his hands. "The sounds were real, and the story was to explain them away—or to keep people away from the Shack—or both. Two-for-one, very efficient." He smiles, small at first and growing, like his energy as thought builds on thought: Sherlock loves other people's cleverness. "No, these kids just took advantage of something larger. Which means they were very brave... or they were part of it."

John looks to the wall again, the deep gouges that someone, something, left behind ages ago, the thick scars in the wood.

"I don't think a bunch of kids did that," he says quietly.

But Sherlock isn't listening. "It's just a theory," he's saying, rushing through the words just to get them out of the way, then waving them off. "Not enough data, of course—other possible theories—but this one—it just fits too well." This might just mean that he likes it the most, but when he sits on the edge of the musty old bed and looks up at John with those shining, excited eyes, John thinks he'd follow him just about anywhere, down any train of thought, to any creepy old abandoned house.

"Break it down for me," he says, leaning his left hand against the bedpost, holding the record between the fingers of his right. This is what Sherlock needs to hear, to slow down those manic thoughts, to slow down.

John watches his shoulders rise and fall with one big breath, then a second.

"There's no reason for this house to be haunted," he says, at last, slow and even. "And no indication that it was except for the strange noises heard by the people in Hogsmeade. If we assume the noises were real and the ghost story was not, then the ghost story was most likely a cover-up for whatever the real source of the noises was. Clearly, whatever was capable of making those marks on the wall is just as capable of creating the noises that frightened so many people. That's simple enough. But—what about the signs of other inhabitants? No one living here permanently, of course—not nearly enough furniture, especially downstairs—it was a hideout, as you said. I think we can safely assume that they were students: not many inhabitants in the one wizards-only village in Britain would even know what a record player is, yet alone have this varied a collection of records to play on it, so probably some one, or ones, more likely, from the school. Do we have enough evidence to link the teenagers to the mysterious beast? It's possible they are completely unconnected. However, the story of the ghost has been incredibly effective among our own classmates in scaring away potential trespassers. The only person I know who would brave this mission with me is standing right here. So. It's unlikely they post-date the monster. They could pre-date it, but any beast that could wreak this sort of havoc on the walls and floor would surely do more damage to the furniture than what we see here. Destroy it utterly, probably. In fact, it is the slight damage we do see that links the beast most strongly with our former students. I think whatever it was, they must have tamed it."

Sherlock looks a little surprised as these last words leave his mouth: one more deduction than he'd been anticipating, John knows he'd explain, if he weren't still turning over that last conclusion in his head. It seems impossible ("There are other possibilities, of course," Sherlock murmurs to himself, a deep frown creasing between his eyes), and yet. And yet. The thought sends a quiet little chill up John's spine. He feels it radiating through him. His feet almost trip over themselves as he takes a step toward the bed, and he sits, puts the record behind him and then his hands in his lap.

"When you say 'beast'—?" He thinks he meant to say, 'when you say tame?' but the words don't quite come out right. "What do you think it was?"

Sherlock shrugs. He's staring at the wall, the uncovered marks slashing across the wood. Some violent, primal, thing, John thinks. Everything he learned in DADA has slipped away from him; his mind's blank now as he tries to remember the Dark beasts, and all that's left is the faint imprints of fairy tales stories and old nightmares. Big hulking creatures. Sharp claws and fangs.

"Might be a wolf," Sherlock says, dully.

"Wolf," John repeats.

He knows that, whatever it was, it's long gone now. The feeling is not dissimilar to that strange echo sensation that haunts him sometimes in cemeteries. He won't tell Sherlock of it. Sherlock would tell him it's all in his head, just associations he has, or thinks he should have, with death, memory, or loss. But he thinks it's more the fear of intrusion. This place isn't his, any more than the graveyard, which is the home of the dead, and it isn't Sherlock's either, and something that may be no more than guilt is prickling at him. Not frightening him, but making him uneasy.

He's about to tell Sherlock that they should leave when Sherlock gets up on his knees on the bed and reaches behind John, picks up the record, and hands it to him. "Put it on," he says. Perhaps John is looking at him in confusion or surprise, because Sherlock makes a face and waves his hand and says, "You understand these Muggle contraptions better than I do, don't you?"

In fact, John knows almost nothing about vinyl, but he muddles through. He can feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he sets the needle in place. It skips, uncertain. There is a gentle crackling sound. A moment of silence, both boys waiting.

A slow vibration of sound fills the room, building, becoming louder, gliding into feedback and then sliding into a steady rhythm. Foxy. The word seems whispered in John's ear, and he realizes he's closed his eyes.

When he opens them again, he sees that Sherlock has kicked off his shoes and is lying on his back on the bed, off to the right so there is plenty of room for John on the left. He has his arms crossed behind his head. John thinks of this as a cloud gazing position (he and Sherlock have done that, too), and for a moment it looks quite unusual to him, to see Sherlock so relaxed and so open, on this musty strange bed, in this room that once caged a beast. He looks at home and out of place, all at once.

"Join me?" he mumbles.

And of course, John does.

They don't fall asleep, but they lie shoulder to shoulder with their fingers entwined, and they listen to song after song until the music finally trails away. By this time, Sherlock's curled on his side with his head on John's chest, his right hand in John's right, and John's left arm around Sherlock's shoulders. His breathing is so even that anyone else, who isn't John, who doesn't know Sherlock this well, would think he has fallen asleep. John's eyes are open and he's wondering if maybe they aren't the first to lie like this in this spot, listening to this music and then to this silence, and he's wondering if this echo, if that is what it is, is frightening or, in fact, a comfort.

"If it's true, then which one of us is the monster?" he mumbles out loud, because he's fairly sure now, he just knows, that is how it was.

"What?" Sherlock mumbles back, neither annoyed nor confused.

"Nothing. I don't know." He scratches his fingers through Sherlock's curls. "Nothing, really. Just… stray thought."

Sherlock makes a quiet little snuffling sound in acknowledgement, and doesn't press. John knows they'll have to leave soon, that soon isn't quite now yet, that they'll both want to return here and neither will be able to say why, and he knows there's a good chance, too, that neither of them will ever see this room again.