Like Hogwarts, one couldn't simply Apparate on to the Holmes estate (or Disapparate off of it). It was a long trek to the gate at the bottom of the hill (made longer by the fact that John, in his haste, had stomped out of the house still only wearing one sock and no shoes) but John was glad for the walk. He hadn't been joking; he really did need some air. Sometimes it seemed like Sherlock took up all the air in the room and left John completely breathless, although normally he didn't mind the sensation. Today, of course, was different. This wasn't the sort of breathless John appreciated.
He didn't get it. Last night had been perfect (aside from the actual boring party itself, which had been excruciatingly dull and uncomfortable). That quiet moment in the garden and then afterwards, Sherlock in his lap, John's hands on Sherlock's hips, their breath mingling and their eyes locked…
Shaking the image away, John pushed the gate open and stepped out of the magical bounds. He closed his eyes and decided at the last moment: Hogsmeade.
x
John realized how mad he must have looked when he stepped into the castle to walk nearly straight into Sarah, who was coming out of the Great Hall after lunch.
Her eyes widened. "John?"
"Oh, Sarah," John muttered, looking down at his haphazard shirt and the sock he was still clutching in his left hand. "I…um…thought you were going home for the holidays?"
"Well," she said, smiling bemusedly at him, "I went for Christmas, but I came back early. Mum and Dad are rather busy, after all, and I get bored sitting around the house for days on end. Listen, John…are you okay? You look…well, a fright honestly."
John barked a laugh that sounded a little off-kilter even to him. "I'm fine." He looked back down at his mussed clothes and shook his head. "No, actually, I'm not really. I'm…" He trailed off, not sure how to explain.
Sarah patted his arm. "Look, why don't you go up and change, then come back down here and meet me? We can go for a walk and have a bit of a chat, hmm?"
"Yeah, okay," John agreed, shifting uncomfortably. His bare foot was starting to ache a little from the cold. "Thank you, Sarah. I…" He shrugged and gave her a half-hearted smile. "I promise this tux looked a lot nicer last night."
Sarah laughed and shooed him away, her smile warm and kind.
x
Talking to Sarah seemed to help. She didn't have any profound insight into the impossible brain of Sherlock Holmes, of course, but she did make John feel better about his own feelings, at least. It was incredibly heady, making love to Sherlock, but Sarah reminded him patiently that he was still quite young and that Sherlock was even younger, and that perhaps they'd do well to slow down a little bit. After all, they'd only known each other for four months, really.
"I know it's hard to keep things in perspective," Sarah said, looping her arm through John's as they paced the grounds, "but there's no need to rush things. Maybe you two should…I don't know, hold off on the sex for awhile, until you both get your feelings straightened out. I really do think he cares about you, John. I'm just not sure he wants to." John couldn't deny there was a sort of sense in that, even if the thought of not touching Sherlock, not taking him and watching him come apart, did make John ache bitterly.
It was supper by the time they got back to the castle, and afterwards John was so tired from the emotions of the day and the hours of walking (plus the nearly sleepless night beforehand) that he went straight up to his room and curled up in bed, falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
x
At breakfast, John wrote out a letter as he ate, requesting that Sherlock send his trunk back to the school and suggesting that they talk about things when Sherlock arrived at Hogwarts the following day. He almost didn't write what he wanted to (I miss you) but then decided it couldn't hurt and tacked it on as a post-script before blotting the ink with a napkin and rolling the letter into a scroll. He'd go up to the Owlery later, and then perhaps work on writing up some of that case with the goblins, leaving out all the parts where they snuck out of the castle, naturally-
"John?"
He looked up to find Sarah standing beside him, her bottom lip between her teeth and her eyes worried. "Yeah?"
"I…" She shook her head and gulped. "I'm so sorry, but I thought you should see this." Sarah held out the morning edition of the Daily Prophet, her hand trembling.
John took it, his brows pulled together, and unfolded it over the table. It took him less than a second to skim the front page, and even less time than that to leap up from his seat and dash out of the hall, pushing his way out of the castle and on to the little path towards Hogsmeade.
Massive explosion at the Holmes manor, the main headline had read. Beneath it, in smaller print, were the more troubling words: Casualties unknown; Aurors refuse comment.
x
John was gasping by the time he'd gotten close enough to the manor to really see it, though he could smell the explosion as soon as he'd Apparated just outside the estate. He had made the run to Hogsmeade in record time and now he was sprinting up the hill towards the main house, his lungs burning and his mind racing. There had been a photo in the paper, fire streaming out of several rows of windows, and John thought he recognized the portion of the house. He was pretty sure it was Sherlock's wing.
Seeing it in person was infinitely worse. It was Sherlock's wing, just like John had thought, and it looked as though the rooms had been completely gutted. The pristine bricks had been painted black with soot, and smoke still streamed out of the broken windows in thin, dancing tendrils. John only paused for a moment to stare at the destruction, open-mouthed and horrified, before running up to the house and throwing the doors open wide.
"Sherlock!" he shouted, running through the main foyer. "Sherlock!" Still a bit unsure of the house's layout, he found himself in the library by mistake…where Sherlock was sitting, completely uninjured, dressed impeccably and plucking away at his violin.
"John," he said, giving the violin another rough twang.
"Sherlock!" John couldn't seem to catch his breath. "I saw…in the paper…are you okay?"
"What? Oh, yeah, fine." Sherlock shrugged. "One of my experiments went a bit…pear-shaped, as they say. I was out in the garden at the time, looking for-for something that might work in a serum I've been testing." He looked away from John and settled his gaze on Mycroft, who John hadn't even noticed was in the room. "And your answer is no," he said, fiddling with the violin again.
"No?" Mycroft said, raising his eyebrow and taking a sip from his tea.
"No," Sherlock echoed, sighing. "It's start of term. Aren't you worried about my education? Really, I must focus on my schoolwork."
Mycroft drummed his fingers against his teacup. "I know perfectly well that you rarely attend class and don't often preoccupy yourself with the triviality of actual schoolwork. Your professors are lenient with you because you're exceptionally proficient, but I'm not so easily impressed. I think you could very easily find the time to do me this small favor."
Sherlock stood and mussed his hair agitatedly. "I don't need your approval or your gratitude, Mycroft, and I'm not interested." He rounded on John suddenly, his eyes narrowed. "You've been writing a letter. To whom?"
"You, actually," John said, startled out of his reverie. Sherlock was okay, no one seemed distraught, the explosion was an accident…all John could think was thank God.
"It's in your pocket," Sherlock said, pointing at the pocket in question. "Give it to me."
"I- all right." John withdrew the scroll and handed it to Sherlock, who snatched it and unrolled it, reading it almost greedily.
Mycroft sighed and stood, addressing John as Sherlock read. "John, I'll be sending you an owl tomorrow evening detailing the case that you and Sherlock will be investigating." He shot a quick glare at his brother and turned back. "See that you treat the information you're provided with as much care as possible. The Ministry has long considered secrecy to be one of its main objectives; I'm sure you understand."
Sherlock had tucked John's letter into his pocket and fallen back into his seat, scooping up the violin once more. As soon as Mycroft opened his mouth to speak again, Sherlock began playing the instrument haphazardly, filling the room with horrid screeches. Mycroft made a face and stalked out of the room, some of his usual dignity marred by his wincing.
With Mycroft gone, Sherlock set the violin down and stared at John for a long, silent moment. "Changed your mind, then?" he asked finally, his tone casual.
"About what, Sherlock?" John rubbed his eyes exasperatedly.
"About us."
John made a face. "Of course not."
"Hmm." Sherlock slashed his bow through the air like it was a sword. "Your letter seemed to suggest that you've found this all a touch…overwhelming."
Frustrated, John sat in the spot Mycroft had vacated and leaned forward. "Of course it's overwhelming," he said. "I lo-" No, John, don't say that. "I like you," he amended, "quite a bit. And this is all so…new. I just- I was thinking we should, y'know, slow things down a little. Just…what are we, Sherlock? Are we even-"
"We're colleagues," Sherlock said suddenly, standing and straightening his shirt. "And you're my mentor. I presume you still want to work on the project? We have half the year left; I'm sure more cases will turn up."
John was losing control of this situation very quickly. "Of course, God, Sherlock-"
"Very well. I'll be in contact." Sherlock strode over to the door and then stopped, glancing over his shoulder. "I'll have one of the house elves take your things back to the castle. Good-bye, John."
And then he was gone. John sat very still for a long moment, his throat dry and his hands fidgety. Eventually he forced himself to stand and walk back down the hill to the entrance of the estate, but he didn't remember anything about the walk, nor did he really pay much attention to the walk back to Hogwarts and up to his room. His trunk was already there when he'd arrived, neatly packed (which meant Sherlock hadn't been the one to do it, certainly) and missing nothing, only very slightly charred along the casing (John suspected Sherlock had cast a protection charm over it at some point, because he certainly hadn't). There were notes scratched in the margins of his essay, little observations put down in Sherlock's neat hand. They were mostly short rants about John's overly narrative language and lack of clinical detachment, although some of them made him laugh a little under his breath. He stared at the essay for a long while before tucking it away and sitting on his bed, the quiet of his empty dorm room almost deafening.
