The sound of John's footsteps drifted quietly down the hall, reaching Sherlock's ears as he hovered just beyond the threshold of his bedroom. Even after living with John for five weeks, he still felt the need to calm 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 for the Ministry. But Sherlock made it clear that day that his only desire was to keep John safe. God forbid (Merlin forbid, insisted the voice in his Mind Palace) one of his outbursts set the couch on fire or brought the ceiling down on 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."
