"John."
The Gryffindor boy blinked, his vision murky with the remnants of a deep and much-needed bout of sleep. Letting his eyes fall closed again, he sank back down into the warmth and comfort of his…no, this wasn't his bed. This was-
John woke up all at once, nearly head-butting Sherlock as he sat up and wiped at his face, hoping against hope that he hadn't drooled or snored or anything else embarrassing, like…oh God, suppose he'd talked in his sleep? Or had a nightmare?
"Do you always wake up so…abruptly?" Sherlock watched him from beside the bed, his hands on his hips and his lips twitching towards a smile.
"Shurrup," John groaned, rubbing his eyes. Was it truly midnight already?
"Come on," Sherlock sighed, already a touch impatient. "Get up. We need to get moving." John nodded and yawned before easing out of bed and digging out the small suitcase he kept under Sherlock's bed for just such an occasion. He'd never had need to sleep in Sherlock's room before, of course, but there had been many times that he'd had to change (like the time Sherlock blew up one of his experiments, or the time they'd fallen into the lake, or the memorable evening the spent wrestling a bewitched inkpot that someone had sent Sherlock as a joke…) and it was good to be prepared. Casting one nervous glance at Sherlock- who seemed to be lost in thought as he laced up his slick black shoes- he shucked off his clothes and swiftly replaced them with the neat, clean ones from the suitcase.
He yawned again and gestured towards the door. "Loo," he explained, his voice still rough with sleep, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and flapped at him to hurry up.
x
Because of Sherlock's intimate knowledge of the castle's various secret tunnels (gained mainly by his unlawful possession of the Marauders' Map, which he'd stolen from the Ministry without a scrap of remorse), getting out of the castle was child's play. Getting down the hill to Hogsmeade village, however, left John in a slightly tetchy mood. It was cold, bitterly cold, which- considering it was just after midnight on a late November night in the Scottish highlands- wasn't surprising, but what made John really bristle was the way his young companion seemed entirely impervious to the wind that sliced through John's clothes and the cold that made him ball up his hands in his pockets and shiver. Sherlock was as stately and unruffled as ever, if one ignored the mess of curls that seemed to have a mind of their own.
As if John were projecting his thoughts out into the crisp winter air, Sherlock let out a breath and yanked off his muffler, winding it around John's neck with a little huff and a look that was not quite a roll of his eyes, but close. "If you carry on chattering your teeth like that, I'll go mad," Sherlock said, turning up the collar of his coat.
John snuggled his chin down into the warm fabric of Sherlock's green-and-silver muffler and tried not to let the tea-tree scent of Sherlock's shampoo distract him. "All right," he said, less shaky than he was before, "so what is this, then? Why Gringotts?"
"Old acquaintance, perhaps you've heard of him. Sebastian Wilkes?" Sherlock's face was cool and impassive, but John thought there was something of an anticipatory edge to his narrow gaze.
John swallowed back his initial reaction- old acquaintance? didn't he break your arm in a scrap once?- and gathered his thoughts slowly, letting the sound of brittle, crunching grass beneath his feet focus him. After a moment, he said, "The Daily Prophet ran a piece about him, what, a year ago? How he'd set himself up as a goblin-human liaison. Chap sounded rather full of himself, going on and on about how difficult it had been to wend his way into the world of goblin customs."
The look on Sherlock's face could have knocked John's breath out, were it not so damn distractingly cold. "Good," Sherlock said, his eyes glittering and his mouth curled slightly. "You're getting better at this. Sebastian is one of the key players at Gringotts. He deals with a lot of the older families. After the Potter affair, relations between goblins and pureblood families were strained, to say the least. Seb's position became something of an eventuality."
"So, what's the problem?"
"Two goblins have gone missing, both of whom work under Seb. Which means they dealt with the wealthier old-blood clientele." Sherlock shrugged. "Clients like that don't trust their valuables to just anybody, and Gringotts has a reputation to uphold. If those goblins aren't found soon Gringotts could lose two of its largest accounts."
"Think they've run off?" John asked. "Or do you reckon something's happened to them?"
Sherlock made a disparaging noise as they reached the end of the path and the gate into Hogsmeade. "John, surely you know by now not to theorize before having viewed all the facts?"
In a placating gesture, John held up his hands. "Okay, so…can we Apparate straight into Gringotts, or do we need to set down in Diagon Alley?"
"Diagon Alley, definitely," Sherlock said, taking John's hand and sidling up beside him. "And do be careful. I have very little interest in splinching."
"Right." Easier said than done; Sherlock was still a month shy of sixteen and nowhere near able to Apparate on his own- legally speaking, of course, because John had very little doubt that the boy already knew how to Apparate theoretically and that he'd have very little trouble picking it up when the time came. Still, there was a lot of pressure involved in a thing like this, and just because John had passed his examination-
"Today would be lovely," Sherlock drawled, and John shot him a sideways glare before letting his eyes fall closed. Diagon Alley, Diagon Alley. Okay, I can do this. Ready? Oh God. Okay, yes…Diagon Alley!
x
"Dear God, I did it."
"Your tone of surprise would worry lesser men," Sherlock said, already ambling down the quiet, empty street towards the bank. "Come along, John; we've already kept our client waiting."
John followed after him, but for once he wasn't watching Sherlock. He almost never had occasion to come Diagon Alley. His robes and supplies were provided by the school, and his plainer things- shirts, trousers, the like- were purchased at regular old Muggle charity shops by John's own mum. Actually, the last time he'd set foot in the London wizarding village it had been the summer before his fifth-year, when he'd come with Mike Stamford and Bill Murray and their parents. There had been something quietly embarrassing about coming out of every shop empty-handed, but it had still been plenty exciting.
And now, to see the place like this…it was almost ethereal.
Like so many times before in their short friendship, the sudden warmth of Sherlock's hand in his brought John's mind back to the present. The taller boy was looking at him with completely undisguised fondness, and John wondered (not for the first time) if maybe he could try things again, now that Sherlock knew him better, but like always Sherlock's voice in his memory (and while I'm flattered by your interest) froze the impulse well before it could manifest itself into something stupid. This- Sherlock's warm hand in his- was good enough.
Sherlock was quietly speaking about their surroundings, pointing to shop after shop and giving John a quick history lesson on each one, as well as some observations Sherlock made from the state of the door handles and kickboards. Most of the shops had their over-door lamps lit, casting a soft glow over the streets, and John felt a sharp pang of regret as they stepped under the eaves at Gringotts; he hadn't really ever wanted their walk to end.
To John's surprise they didn't go in through the front door but rather continued on around the building and down the long, thin alley that ran alongside it. Behind the bank, looking more like an afterthought than a proper addition, was a little set of stairs that went down into the ground and led to some dark unknown. "This way," Sherlock said, impatient again as he tugged John down the stairs after him. The staircase was shorter than it seemed from the top, twisting a little at the bottom before stopping curtly in front of a very solid looking door. Sherlock released John's hand and rapped on the door three times before folding his arms in front of him with a rather surly expression.
x
Seated in Sebastian Wilkes' warm little office, John was better able to get a good look at the man. He was young, of course, having been in Mycroft Holmes' grade, but he held himself like someone who hadn't been a child in a long, long time. That seemed a pretty common case with pureblood types; they were all made to grow up fast, either by overbearing parents or the pressure of pureblood society. Despite the past two Wizarding wars, purebloods were still the social elite. Money was money, after all, and no matter how many rights Muggleborns had or how much they were respected, they'd never have vaults filled to the brim with ancient and invaluable family heirlooms, not unless they stole them or married into them. No sprawling manors or house-elves that had served their family for generations; no parents at the Ministry or in the Wizengamot to subtly bend things to their will. And Sebastian Wilkes looked like the sort of oily-grinned git that knew exactly what his privilege was and saw no reason not to flaunt it.
"Sherlock," Sebastian said with the sort of false warmth John had always associated with the very rich, "so good of you to come. And you brought a friend."
John didn't like the implications Seb seemed to be impressing upon the word 'friend', nor did he like the idea of Sherlock feeling uncomfortable, so he quickly said, "Colleague. I'm his colleague. Uh, John Watson."
Seb's grin grew by miles. "Watson. Hmm. Can't say I've heard of the name."
Subtle, but it got the point across. John pursed his lips- after all, this awful prat was still a client- and looked in deference to Sherlock, who was sitting rather rigidly with his legs crossed and his top foot only very slightly twitching. "Well, you wouldn't have," Sherlock snapped, his fingers tapping once, twice on the armrest before falling still. "Now, the case. I'll need to look at the goblins' desks, of course, and the vaults they worked-"
"Naturally," Seb interrupted, his hands folding in his lap. "Whatever you need. And if you can make this little problem disappear for me by Christmas, I'll be more than happy to make it very worth your while."
"Not interested," Sherlock said at once, his eyes flitting to John and then back to Sebastian.
Seb spread his fingers in surrender, though there was something very lewd about his little smile. "Very well. A more traditional means of payment, then. Shall we say….five figures? I'll put half in your vault now and half when the job is done."
The mention of money seemed to put Sherlock in an even sourer mood. "No, not my vault. Mycroft monitors my account and I would prefer he didn't know I was taking cases outside the castle. No, put it in John's."
That seemed to startle Sebastian a little, although his smug smile was brought back by John's uncomfortable stammer. "I don't…uh, I-I don't actually have a vault, Sherlock."
"You don't…" Sherlock blinked at him for a moment but recovered quickly, turning back to Seb with his chin high and proud. "Sebastian, I need you to open an account for my colleague John Watson immediately. I'm sure the first half of my payment will be more than sufficient for covering the opening fees."
"Oh, yes," Seb agreed good-naturedly. "And will your colleague be requiring one of our maximum-security vaults, Sherlock? Perhaps one of the lower levels?"
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Medium security will be fine, thank you."
"Wonderful." Sebastian gave Sherlock another long, lingering look before turning to John and leaning forward, his voice taking on the high notes of someone speaking to a child. "Mr. Watson, sir, we offer a rudimentary course on Wizard money, should you need it. I know how very confusing it can all be to someone used to a more…common currency."
John had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something rude. Thankfully, Sherlock did it for him. "Sod off, Seb. He knows how to use money; he's not an idiot." Standing, Sherlock turned his glare towards John and said, a bit nastily, "Let's go. We've work to do."
x
"Merlin's beard, I need a cigarette." Sherlock rummaged in his pockets for a moment, making little frustrated noises.
"Didn't know you smoked." Leaning against the back wall of the bank, John looked at his young friend worriedly. The boy seemed impossibly unhinged, considering how cool and arrogant he normally was, and John didn't like it.
"I don't. I quit." Sherlock yanked his pockets inside-out and growled as nothing fell out of them.
John cleared his throat. "Is he always like that? So…so condescending? I swear, I half-expected him to call me a Mudblood and accuse me of stealing some honest wizard's wand."
Sherlock gave a small start at the curse. "Sebastian would never be so overt," Sherlock said after a pause, his eyes searching John's. "His attitude…it's commonplace among purebloods, but he's no neo-Death Eater. He was just trying to rile me up. Anyway, most purebloods think of Muggles and Muggleborns as hapless children who need proper guidance."
"And do you feel that way?" John asked, his hands tightening a little in his pockets.
For a long moment, Sherlock only looked at John in silence. At last he said, slowly, "I won't lie and say I find Muggles interesting or worthwhile in any real capacity. But I feel that way about nearly everyone whether they can do magic or not. People are boring, but I extend that to all people."
John put his face in his hands and laughed. "Christ. Only you could say something like that and sound like the better person for it." Sherlock laughed, too, making John relax a little. "Look," John said suddenly, "it's none of my business, but you can do better than that." John waved towards Sebastian's office with a disgusted look. "You don't- you shouldn't- I'm just saying that he's not good enough for you. At all. Just…" John shrugged. "You deserve better."
The half-smile that stole across Sherlock's face was unlike any John had seen him wear before. "Of course you would choose to be perceptive at the worst possible time," Sherlock sighed ruefully. "But you needn't worry about my honor, John. I won't be taking Sebastian to bed ever again." John's expression must have spurred him on further, because Sherlock went on, "I'm not ashamed to tell you that he was my first lover. My only lover, as a matter of fact, and I don't think I'll be so keen on making that mistake again, with him or anyone else."
John swallowed roughly. "That bad, huh?"
"One expects the first time to be less than satisfactory," Sherlock said casually, neatening the pockets he'd turned out. "But one also expects an eventual decrease in discomfort as the activity becomes more frequent. Among other things, release and the like." John noticed that the more uncomfortable Sherlock was the more formal his speech became. "When ten such exercises fail to yield acceptable results it's generally considered safe to call the experiment a failure."
"Sherlock, that's…" John shook his head. "No wonder it wasn't good if you approached it like that! You have to kind of, let go a little. You know? It's supposed to be…well, fun."
Sherlock sniffed. "I have enough annoying people in my life without adding another. I'm perfectly content to leave things as they are."
"No, you're not," John grinned, knocking him lightly with his elbow. "When have you ever been happy to let anything be?"
"Hmm." Sherlock gave John a searching look before letting his mouth turn up at the edges. "I wonder who you would recommend for Sebastian's replacement."
Oh. …And while I'm flattered by your interest… Clearing his throat, John took a step back and looked up at the sky. "I thought you and Sebastian were enemies. Heard you got into a few fist-fights in your early days at school."
"Yes, that's true," Sherlock said, allowing the change of subject with only a hint of amusement in his voice. "But he was already out of school by the time anything like that happened between us. The first time was at Mycroft's New Year's party last year. In a coatroom. Polite society would be scandalized."
"Last year?" John did the math in his head. "Oh, yuck. That's…what a slug, that bloke."
"Mm, and that slug is providing us with a seemingly interesting case." Sherlock nodded towards the alley. "Shall we?"