Big thank you to everyone who read, reviewed or subscribed to this. Here's Chapter 2...
It's well past midnight, and the dungeon corridor down which Sherlock marches is deserted and cast in shadows. It's been an extraordinarily boring day, Sherlock reflects, his quick steps echoing on the cold stone floor. No sign of Jim, for one thing. Sherlock frowns to himself distractedly, that is worrying, it's usually when Jim isn't anywhere to be seen that he is causing the most trouble. The worse the trouble, the further he appears to be from it.
Strangely enough, the high point of his day had probably been speaking to John Watson. Sherlock is loath to admit it, but he finds the Gryffindor boy, strangely… quite interesting. His readiness to smile and laugh with Sherlock sets him aside from the others; it was refreshing. Good looking too, Sherlock thinks, allowing his mind to wander… those strong, tanned arms, so different to Jim's wiry limbs. He wonders what it would be like to be wrapped in them… probably not too bad…
Rounding the corner he is pulled abruptly back to reality, as he charges at full speed into Hufflepuff prefect, Greg Lestrade, on his patrol of the empty dungeons.
"Lestrade! How simply wonderful to see you," Sherlock smirks sarkily, as Lestrade picks himself up off the floor, a look of mild annoyance on his usually calm face.
"I'm sure. Now get the hell to bed."
Sherlock chuckles, "Flattered though I am by your interest, Lestrade, I must inform you that I consider myself married to my work and ca-"
"Hilarious." Greg sighs in exasperation. "Detention for a week if you don't make it back to the Slytherin dormitory within the next… let's see… three minutes"
Sherlock smiles slowly, standing his ground, "Does your girlfriend know you're making a habit of meeting my brother in broom cupboards, Lestrade?"
The older boy freezes, a tortured look passing over his face. "Oh, for fuck's sake. Fine. Do what you want. Quite frankly, I don't have the energy to stop you."
"No. You'd need rather a lot." Sherlock bounces forwards victoriously, "Can't stay. Experiments to finish."
Reaching the potions classroom Sherlock breathes a happy sigh, indulging in a rare smile. The jars of pickled animals lining the walls, the well stocked store cupboard, the endless possibilities for absorbing experiments… it's somewhere he can spend time without being bored out of his mind.
As far as Sherlock is concerned, school is an extortionate waste of his time. Everything he needs to know, he already does. And has done since the age of six. In order to relieve the boredom, and save his brain from rotting in his skull, it seemed only reasonable that he make midnight trips to the restricted section, the potions classrooms and his professors' private store cupboards. The habit had formed in his first week at Hogwarts, and, much to Mycroft's displeasure, had continued for the past six years.
It is early morning by the time Sherlock has finished. The room now filled with curling tendrils of golden smoke. Leaving his equipment scattered over the desk he turns to leave his preferred Potions classroom.
Damn. He stops in his tracks, silver eyes narrowed, repressing a groan. A tall, slim figure is leaning casually against the doorframe, legs crossed and eyes bright, a head boy badge pinned to his robes.
"Not now, Mycroft. I'm busy."
Mycroft Holmes was, possibly aside from Jim, the only person Sherlock knew who could sneak up on him without being noticed. It had recently become something of a habit, one which made him exceptionally irritating.
Mycroft sweeps into the room with a regal air, "So I've heard, dear brother. I've just spoken with the charmant Lestrade. Do I really have to remind you to play nice, Sherlock? Blackmail is… unattractive."
Sherlock snorts, "Right. I'll follow your cue and stick to manipulative bribery from now on."
Mycroft's smile disappears. "I rarely find it necessary to resort to bribery, Sherlock." His tone grows frosty. "And, by the by, you would be better placed to make comments on other people's relationships if you weren't entangled in certain… unsavoury, ones of your own. Do bear that in mind."
Sherlock hisses, cat like, as Mycroft turns abruptly on his heels, leaving him alone in the room.
It's another two days before John is finally released from the hospital wing, under strict instructions from Mrs Hudson to avoid strenuous exercise for a week. John loves the thrill of Quidditch, but he can't pretend he's not glad for an excuse to miss a couple of practices. He and Sarah- the team's captain and a Chaser- had recently gone through an amicable, yet awkward break-up and the team dynamic was suffering.
Sitting at the Gryffindor breakfast table, amid a crowd of friends, John reflects on his earlier conversation with Sherlock. He was surprised by the other boy's sharp humour, his quick smile. Unfortunately, the warmth he had glimpsed behind that cold, harsh façade only seemed to draw him closer to the Slytherin. What had once been a gentle curiosity was threatening to become something of an obsession. John glances over at the Slytherin table, raking his eyes up and down. No sign of Sherlock. Or his strange friend with the wild, black eyes. He remembers Mrs Hudson's complaints over Sherlock's refusal to eat. "Boring!" a deep voice rings out in his mind, and he chuckles quietly into his cereal.
"John? Gonna share the joke?" Sally's voice pulls John back to reality. He looks up to find his group of friends have gone quiet, eyeing him with amusement.
He blushes, embarrassed, but is saved from answering by an exclamation of annoyance from Michael Anderson, a few seats away.
"Eurgh, would you look at that. You'd think the freaks could at least keep their hands off each other in public. People are trying to eat in here."
John's heart rate increases as he twists in his seat to follow the group's joint gaze. Sherlock Holmes and his black eyed friend are walking, stumbling, together through the large double doors. The shorter boy (James? Jim?) has his arms wrapped loosely around Sherlock's waist, clinging on to him from behind, his mouth working furiously in the taller boy's ear. Sherlock is, amazingly, laughing. He looks dishevelled, John thinks, and, well, rather delicious. The black eyed boy looks up suddenly, meeting his gaze. John feels an unpleasant pang, close to his heart.
"Who is that?" John asks. "The boy with Sherlock?" The two have made their way to the Slytherin table, where they sit slightly apart from their fellow students.
"Jim Moriarty," Sally replies, sniffing with distaste, "they're shagging, apparently."
Ouch, definite pang. John blinks in surprise. Don't be ridiculous, he tells himself silently, you barely even know Sherlock. Why do you care who he is or isn't fucking?
"Apparently?" snorts Anderson, his mouth full of food, "Dimmock walked in on them with their tongues down each other's throats in an empty classroom yesterday. They had their shirts unbuttoned. I'd say that's proof enough. Freaks."
John pushes away his plate, standing suddenly. He's never been fond of Anderson, but right now he is resisting the urge to throw a punch. Probably time to leave.
"John?" Sarah calls to him, looking concerned, as he sets off, away from the table
"He's not a freak." John calls back, louder than he intended. Along the Gryffindor table, a few heads turn. "Sherlock, I mean. He's not."
Anderson's eyebrows practically disappear. He snorts again, and John throws him a parting look of disgust, before leaving the hall.
Excuse the extensive author's notes, but just to explain a few things…
The choice of houses (!): I used to think Sherlock would be in Ravenclaw, but… (a) He's only interested in learning when it directly benefits him (or his work), (b) I like the tension between Gryffindor and Slytherin and, (c) He can be a bit of a bitch
John and Sherlock are both in their sixth year. Mycroft is in his last. I am ignoring the age gap between them.
I'll update again soon.
